


Across The Sea of Years

by LlamasInDisguise



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Family Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I don't know what I'm doing, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Not Canon Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-05-25 21:22:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14985851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LlamasInDisguise/pseuds/LlamasInDisguise
Summary: The past cannot be changed, but that doesn't stop some people from trying.





	1. and the terror of time

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quote from Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir"  
> Chapter title from Blue Oyster Cult's "Death Valley Nights"

 

* * *

  _“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face_

_And stars fill my dreams_

_I am a traveler of both time and space_

_To be where I have been”_

* * *

 

 

 

He wakes up on the side of an empty stretch of highway, a dark mass of trees growing behind him, and no clue in hell where he is. His palms are pressed to the crumbled pavement, pebbles nearly breaking the skin, and when he pulls himself to his knees the muscles in his abdomen pull and tear and scream in pain. He almost doubles over, again, but years of agony have made him tougher than that, or at least able to ignore more things than he used to. He stands, touches his stomach, and his hand comes away sticky and wet and covered in red.

Not a good sign, if there ever was one.

The road is lonely and dark in the wavering moonlight, and the yellow line stretches long and thin in both directions, left and right, seemingly on into infinity. The only light the sky holds is that of the moon and billions of stars, and there’s no tell-tale illumination along the horizon hinting at a faraway city.

As far as he can tell he’s in the middle of nowhere, with no civilization for miles. No civilization means no people, and no people and the empty road means that cars don’t come this way often, means he’s got a slim to none chance of hitching a ride. Which means he’s out of luck.

He’s gonna have to walk this one on foot.

‘Course he never had much luck, anyway, and whatever little bit he did have must’ve run out years ago. Probably when he broke all those mirrors that one time, but then again he’s never really been that superstitious.

No pointing in pretending when you know what’s really out there, after all.

He stands there, on the side of the empty road, and does a quick inventory of his wounds. Bruises, mostly, some scrapes and burns and half-healed scars. Not too bad, all things considered. Other than the gaping hole in his stomach, of course.

And that’s what it is, a hole. Stab wound, most likely, he thinks. Entry wound in the middle of his back, towards the base of his spine. Knife exited through the upper stomach, abdomen, before being yanked out again. Might’ve twisted some, feels like some of his insides aren’t quite in the right place. Wonders how the hell he’s still breathing.

The wound is fatal. There’s no doubt about it. The only question is why isn’t he a lifeless hunk of meat right now. People don’t survive stab wounds like this, because stab wounds like this belong on cold corpses occupying hospital morgues, not people lost on the side of some godforsaken highway.

Speaking of the highway… it looks like so many he’s seen throughout his too-many years. It could be any empty stretch of road all across the country. There’s so many of them, after all. So many backroads and rarely used highways surrounded by ominous trees and whispering woods.

So he doesn’t know where he is, or why he is, or how the hell he wound up here. There’s an impossible wound in his back, he’s bleeding profusely, is somehow still alive, and he really just wants to sit down and maybe rest for a moment. He wants to be able to freak out, because if anything this is a situation worth freaking out over.

But there’s no time to freak out now, and there won’t be time later. And, really, when he thinks about it, this doesn’t even warrant a full-fledged breakdown, because it’s not the weirdest thing to happen to him. Sad, but true. His life is a shitfest of weird. He should be used to it by now, hell, he practically is.

He packs the choking panic into a box, puts that box on a shelf, and locks the fucking door to the storage room in his mind. This isn’t the time or place. This is not how he deals with his problems. He prides himself in being at least somewhat quick thinking, able to reason logically under stressful situations. And yes, this qualifies as a stressful situation.

So he stands still for a moment and takes a deep breath, tries to collect whatever bearings he can. The road in front of him stretches out to the left and right, each way disappearing from view, and with no car going in either direction, he figures that he’s got about a fifty-fifty chance.

Walk long enough in one direction and you’re bound to end up somewhere, right?

He steps onto the crumbling asphalt, sets his feet in the direction he aims to go, and starts walking.

 

...... ...... ......

 

The hunt started going bad before it had even begun. It was the first one since, well, that one thing that Dean was trying not to think about happened, and truth be told he and John could have been a lot more prepared. Because they weren't, prepared that is, which was probably a first for a hunter as experienced as a Winchester, but things had been stressful of late, and Dean wasn’t going to blame his dad for almost getting him killed.

He blamed himself.

There was a second werewolf. Of fucking course there was a second werewolf. There’s always a second werewolf, and there’s always supposed to be someone watching out for a second monster, but there was a victim, still alive, and in the heat of the moment Dean just wanted to be able to save one person instead of always killing things. John was focused on the first werewolf. Neither of them noticed the second werewolf sneaking up behind.

They’d forgotten they didn’t have someone watching their backs. They weren’t used to hunting as just the two of them.

So in the heat of the moment Dean forgot and John forgot and the second werewolf attempted to take a chunk and a little more out of a certain Winchester, and that’s how Dean wound up face up on the dirty forest floor, amidst moldered leaves and mushrooms, staring at the speckled sky, the stars twinkling distantly and blurred before his eyes. Blood was oozing from the back of his neck, running in a hot, sticky stream down his spine, soaking the back of his faded t-shirt. It was uncomfortable, his hearing seemed muffled. He wondered, distantly, if the werewolf had intentionally gone for the brain stem, or if it’d just latched on wherever the hell it could.

His brain muddled its way through several thoughts before settling on _oh shit_ , _I’ve been bit._

He wondered if this was how he died.

This is not how he died.

John shot the first werewolf, once, neatly, in the chest. Silver pierced the heart, it dropped dead almost immediately, mutated form slowly turning back into something human. The second werewolf was eyeing its injured prey, too stupid or maybe just too distracted to pay attention to the man with the gun.

The werewolf lunged for Dean’s immobile body, teeth bared and claws extended, in the same moment that John straightened up, took aim, and fired a second shot. He didn’t consider himself an excellent marksman for nothing -- his aim was true; the bullet struck and took down the monster, and John was in motion immediately, running towards his son as the werewolf’s body collapsed directly onto aforementioned son.

Later, if asked, John would say that he was calm. Sure, he was worried, but he certainly didn’t panic, ignore the hyperventilating victim, and roll the dead, bleeding werewolf body off of Dean, shouting his son’s name the entire time with a suspiciously panic-laced tone of voice.

John Winchester did not panic.

The werewolf slumped limply to the side. John slipped his hand under Dean’s head to cover the wound on the back of his son’s neck with his palm, trying to staunch the blood flow, heart thudding in his throat. A small amount of fear diminished when he felt the clean cut, not the ragged torn flesh caused by teeth. It had been a rock, a fucking stone with a sharp edge, that caused it. Not a bite. But a blow like that to the back of the head... and Dean’s face was slack, his gaze clouded.

He’d just lost one son. He wasn’t about to lose a second one.

Dean blinked, only barely, but enough to still be awake. Enough to be alive. His breathing was rapid, shallow, but a frantic injury search didn’t lead to any broken or fractured ribs. A concussion, definitely (although how bad John didn’t know), the gash on the back of the neck that was gonna need stitches, a bloodied scrape on his arm, and what was gonna be a hell of a bruise. No obvious bites, no claw marks. Overall, he was okay. Dean was fine. Heck, it was less than what he’d gotten on hunts before, when he was half his current age.

He was going to be okay.

John sat back on his heels, overcome. He let himself breath and took a look around. They, or rather he, would have to deal with the bodies. And the victim, of course. She was sitting on the ground, arms wrapped around her knees with a wide-eyed stare aimed at nothing. John frowned. Shock, probably. The girl needed a hospital. Dean could be patched up back at the motel room, John just needed to get him there first.

He could do all that in a minute. For a moment John simply sat there, letting his heart return to it’s normal pace, and wondered what the hell he was doing. His son had almost… well. He could have lost Dean tonight. Every hunt, really. Even the best of hunters die, and there was no way of knowing when or where or how or why.

Soft moaning, coming from Dean, brought John back to the present. He bent down, looped an arm around Dean’s back, and hauled him to his feet. Slowly, they made their way to the Impala, staggering the whole way. Once Dean was safely tucked into the backseat, John went back to get the girl. She wouldn’t uncurl from her defensive ball, and for the second time that night John found himself basically carrying someone to the Impala.

With the Impala aimed in the direction of the nearest hospital, John glanced into the rearview mirror, then into the passenger seat. One passenger practically comatose from shock, one bleeding from his neck.

John sighed. It was about time they had a fucking break.

 

…… …… ……

 

Which is how they end up here, Blue Earth, Minnesota, in the kitchen of a very informed Pastor named Jim who probably knows more about hunting than Dean can ever imagine. Pastor Jim’s isn’t that far from where the werewolf hunt had been, only a state or so away, but South Dakota is nearly just as close. But Dean knows why John didn’t head towards Sioux Falls, as the last time they saw a certain someone he was aiming a shotgun full of rocksalt at John’s head.

Damnit. Dean really misses Bobby.

Dean cradles his mug of coffee in both hands, leaning up against the kitchen counter in a deceptively relaxed manner. He wants John, who is still sleeping at the moment, to believe he’s fine, that his wounds aren’t holding them up. He knows that this is really why they’re at Jim’s, because John got worried about Dean’s injuries, but Dean is more than ready to hit the road. He feels restless and impatient. He doesn’t want to hang around in the same place, especially after…

Well. After what happened.

Dean is carefully not thinking about The Incident, which is how he refers to it when he isn’t thinking about it, because he _isn’t_ thinking about it.

Nope, not at all.

So Dean pretends to be relaxed, leaning in what he assumes is a cool and calm manor against the counter, but the truth is his neck hurts like a bitch. The freaking werewolf luckily didn’t rip a chunk out, but the rock sliced like a fucking blade, and now a mass of stitches are holding the skin together and they aren’t too comfortable. Speaking of uncomfortable, the scabbed over mess of his arm is itching like hell, and his ribs feel tender and bruised and it hurts _a lot_ when he moves or even breathes.

He feels like shit.

But John does not need to know that.

Soon enough, a stomping sound leads down the stairs, and Dean waits patiently as the sound comes closer, culminating in the haggard appearance of John in the doorway. He nods, casually, to his father as John takes a seat.

“Coffee.”

Dean slides an already filled mug across the small wooden table. “So, we headed out after breakfast? Or do you want to wait til later?” The delivery is casual, cool. _Nailed it_.

John is looking down at his coffee and he doesn’t look up as Dean talks. He hums, absently, almost thoughtfully. There’s a paper on the table, today’s date, and he picks it up, flips to the obituaries out of habit.

The relaxed lean is not quite as relaxed as it was before, but Dean still maintains the position as he waits, patiently, for the confirmation that is sure to come. It’s not like he got bit, and it’s not like he’s hurt beyond repair, so there’s no real reason to wait, right? They can at least start researching, go ahead and get a jump start on another hunt. And, if need be, they can heal up in whatever motel they come across on the road. There is no need to stay in one place, to stay at Pastor Jim’s, for any longer.

But the confirmation doesn’t come, and John doesn’t tell Dean to get his things or to put the bags in the trunk. He doesn’t say anything, and before Dean can repeat his question Pastor Jim breezes into the kitchen, dressed casually in a button up and jeans instead of his usual clerical collar, and smiles graciously at both men.

“Pancakes?” he asks. “I can whip up some if you’re hungry, which I imagine you are. Bacon, too.”

John nods, eyes still focused on the paper. “Sounds good.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, just kind of stands there a little bit confused and a little bit annoyed, then Pastor Jim catches sight of him and frowns. “You’re still healing, so I don’t imagine that standing is real comfortable. Why don’t you grab a seat?”

Reluctantly Dean maneuvers himself, and his coffee, to the table. Sitting is more comfortable, especially since it doesn’t strain his side as much, but that’s not the _point_.

“You aren’t planning on heading out yet, I hope?”

The question is directed at John, casual in tone, and Dean perks up immediately, just as interested in hearing the answer as Pastor Jim appears to be. Because, apparently, his questions don’t warrant answers like other people’s questions do.

“Figured we’d stay a while, rest up. If that’s alright with you?” John says, and Dean can’t believe his ears.

Rest up? _Rest up?_ Did he hear that right?

Pastor Jim quickly agrees, saying something about how staying for a while is fine and great and all, and how he’ll be happy to have them.

Dean isn’t paying attention.

Outside, he’s pretty sure that his face remains carefully schooled in an uncaring expression, but on the inside his mind is whirling at an alarming rate. Since when do they rest up between hunts? He can hardly remember a time when it wasn’t back-to-back hunts, one after another, barely finishing one before jumping onto the next.

Why, now of all times, does John decide to take a break?

Actually, when Dean really thinks about it, he’s pretty sure he knows.

The answer is glaringly obvious, but it’s not a reason he really wants to delve into, so he accepts John’s answer at face value and keeps his features emotionless at the new information.

Pancakes and bacon are served, coffee is refilled, and conversation comes to a pause as food is consumed. Say what you will about Pastor Jim’s career choices in religion, something in which Dean has about zero use for, but that man knows how to fry bacon up just right. Dean’s pretty sure that that allows for forgiveness for most things.

Plates have been cleared away, and final rounds of coffee are being poured when the phone rings. It surprises everyone. Pastor Jim frowns slightly and wonders aloud who would be calling at this time, as he wasn’t expecting anyone to call. Dean is the first one out of his chair, meaning that he’s the first one to the phone. He skids into the hallway and snatches the phone off its hook.

“Hello?”

For a split second he allows himself to hope…

An unfamiliar voice answers, and the hope deflates almost before he realizes it was there.

“Hi, I’m calling from the Office of Undergraduate Admissions at Stanford University. Is Sam Winchester there? This number was listed as a secondary contact number, and the primary contact number given is unreachable,” a woman’s voice says, sounding cool and businesslike.

Dean’s heart skips a beat. “No… no, he’s not here.”

The woman makes a small noise over the line, and says, “Well, if you are in contact with him, could you please inform him that classes start in less than a week. If he still intends to attend, then he needs to register for classes and claim his dorm. We can only reserve his spot for so long. If he fails to get in contact with us then we will have to drop him from our student roster.”

Dean’s mind blanks. “What? What do you mean register for classes? Shouldn't he have done that already?” His voice is rougher, angrier than it should be, but he can’t help it. Panic is beginning to claw its way up his throat.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. Finally, in a slower, careful voice, the woman speaks. “Sam Winchester never showed up for Orientation. That was almost a week ago. We have reserved his place as a student and his dorm, but if he does not contact us with a decision than his position as Stanford at will transfer to the next available student.”

“You mean he’s not there.”

It’s not a question, and the lady basically already answered it.

“No.” She repeats, “Sam Winchester never showed up for Orientation or to register for classes. May I ask what you’re relationship to Sam Winchester is?”

“Brother,” Dean says. “I’m his brother.”

The woman clears her throat audibly. “Listen, Mr. Winchester, is there some sort of… problem? Should I notify--”

He hangs up the phone.

“Dean?” John’s voice calls from the kitchen, where he and Pastor Jim have obviously been listening in on the one-sided conversation. John’s voice is laced with something like alarm, something like concern.

But Dean doesn’t answer. He’s leaning against the wall beside the phone, hands hanging limply at his sides, staring straight ahead. In his chest his heart is pounding a panicked staccato, his lungs feel weird, like they’re straining, like he can’t quite draw in enough air. His blood is thrumming, electric and anxious, and he keeps repeating one word over and over and over in his head.

_Sammy_ …

If Sam isn’t at Sanford, _where he was fucking supposed to be,_ and he isn’t here, with Dad and Pastor Jim and _Dean_ , then… _where the fucking hell is he?_

The lack of response to John’s question sends both him and Pastor Jim into the hallway, where they find Dean in his shocked state.

“Dean?” John is saying, voice firm but edged with alarm. “Dean, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“Sammy,” he says, still dazed. “It’s Sammy.”

“What about Sammy, Dean?”

Dean blinks slowly, as if coming back to his sense. He looks at the worry in his father’s face and the concern in Pastor Jim’s. “Sammy is… he never made it to Stanford. Dad…” Dean trails off, shaking his head.

“Sammy’s missing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um. i don't really know what this is, or what i'm doing.


	2. thoughts in time and out of season

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hitchhiker gets a ride. Dean and John go on a hunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Doors "The Hitchhiker"  
> Chapter quote from "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

* * *

  _“Yet knowing how way leads on to way,_

_I doubted if I should ever come back ”_

* * *

 

 

The road goes on for miles and miles, seemingly an endless stretch of cracked pavement and loneliness. He walks, for how long he does not know, but long enough that the dark sky melts into grey, and then into a pale blue as the sun rises into the sky. In the light of the daytime the road looks even more desolate, wear and tear and neglect obvious. In this whole time not a single car has passed him, and not a single evidence of civilization has appeared.

He wonders, briefly, if he is going to die out here, alone in the wilderness.

The thought vanishes as soon as it appears, because of obvious reasons. If he was going to die he would already be dead. Impossible injuries, and all.

Logic tells him that he’s not going to die along some empty stretch of highway because of starvation or dehydration or utter boredom. He’s just got a long way to walk.

Dense forest turns to sparse trees, turns to brush, turns to barren desert reflecting mirage and sun glare and heat so severe it reminds him of another time and place that he’d rather not think about. So he doesn’t think about it. He continues walking, continues putting one foot in front of the other, mind so focused on this menial task that at first he doesn’t hear the distant roar until it’s right upon him.

It’s familiar, that roar, but his brain can’t place it.

And then, suddenly, it does, but by the time he extends his hand in the universal hitchhiker signal, the car is speeding past him. It disappears down the hazy road.

Honestly, he doesn’t blame them. They’d have to be extremely stupid to pick up a tall, intimidating man. Not that that makes it any easier for him, but he’s dealt with worse things than being forced to walk.

The sun settles into the sky, a pale, faded light shining down across the empty landscape. He starts to sweat under his heavy flannel, shirt sticking to the still bleeding wound. It’s uncomfortable and more than a little painful. He can’t remember the last time he ate, or the last time he had water. He’s not hungry, and though he feels thirsty he hasn’t passed out. He’s been walking for hours, and yet his legs haven’t given out from exhaustion. The human body can only endure so much before it’s forced to rest, and yet here he remains.

Another car passes, speed increasing as it nears him. He holds out his hand, again, knowing that the whole attempt is useless. The car speeds on past, and his hand lowers back down to his side, where he lets it dangle.

So he keeps walking, and he keeps waiting, and he tries to not let his mind run towards places were he’d rather not go. It’s easy to lose control of thoughts, especially when there is nothing to do but think and wonder.

From behind him, somewhere back the way he came, comes another rumble of an engine. He wonders why the sudden influx of cars. Where had they been earlier? Why now?

The car passes, and he lifts a hand. It’s becoming a force of habit. He doesn’t look at the car. It isn’t until another rumble of engine that he looks up, thoroughly confused. The confusion only deepens when he recognizes the car. It’s the same car that passed him earlier.

The car rumbles on. Then passes him, again. And then again.

He wonders why nothing normal ever happens in his life.

 

…… …… ……

 

Immediately there is panic, and everything that Dean has slowly grown used to is changing, and definitely not for the better.

In the days that follow that ill-fated phone call, Dean and John drive out to California. They reach Palo Alto on a Tuesday, sometime in late afternoon, and wade through a jumble of rushed students before they reach the Office of Admissions, where a haggard woman sends them to the Dean of Students.

The meeting clears things up, but fails to help in anyway. John sits, thin lipped and tense, as the Dean of Students, a slightly round man with a jolly demeanor, explains that not only did Sam never show up for orientering, but he never contacted the school, and when they tried to contact him his phone wasn’t working.

During the conversation Dean sees images of Sam’s lifeless body flash in front of his eyes.

Thinking that something bad _didn’t_ happen is impossible, because if Sam didn’t go to Stanford, than he wouldn’t have left. Or at least that is what Dean keeps telling himself. Why would Sam lie about Stanford? Why would he go through all the trouble to apply, to get accepted, and to leave, only to end up not going to the school?

He wouldn’t.

And he wouldn’t leave Dean and John if he didn’t have a reason for leaving.

So… why?

Dean’s brain provides an answer, and it’s not one that he likes.

So they search. They contact Pastor Jim and he contacts people he knows. John contacts Bobby, despite the dislike between the two men, and Bobby gets in touch with the hunters that he knows. John makes calls to all the hunters he knows, the ones he still talks to, and the ones he tries to ignore. Most people agree to help look. Nobody finds anything.

The entire country is interspersed with hardened hunters keeping an eye out for a too tall, skinny boy with too-much hair. They ask around, keep an eye on hitchhikers, and the victims they find during hunts.

Sam doesn’t show up, living or dead.

It’s like he just vanished. _Poof_. Disappeared into thin air. It’s almost impossible to not find any sign of him, but there are thousands and thousands of missing people in the United States. Now Sam is one of them.

If Sam leaving for Stanford was hard on Dean, then this is a thousand times worse. It affects John, too, and his obsession with hunting is momentarily place on the back-burner to make room for the new obsession of finding his missing son. It’s like a revenge mission, only John doesn’t know who he’s trying to get revenge on. The whole time Dean feels useless, as there are no leads and every single hope fizzles out into nothing. He’s left with nothing to do but sit around and mourn his brother.

The weeks melt by and there is _nothing_.

Not a single clue, not a single lead. People start to suggest that John and Dean stop searching, or, at the very least, put off the search for a while. It has been long enough that the chances are… well. Even monsters don’t feed on the same victim for that long. There may be a body, somewhere, but hoping for more is just pointless.

Which is exactly what they hear when they end up at Bobby’s, out of clues and steeped in desperation.

Dean almost can’t believe his ears when he hears those words uttered. Apparently John is of the same mindset, because he whirls on Bobby, eyes blazing as he says, “Are you saying I should just _give up_? Goddammit, Bobby, that’s my son you’re talking about!”

Bobby grimaces. “I know that, idjit, but I also know damn well how long three weeks is. If you ain’t found nothing yet then you ain’t gonna find nothing.”

There’s truth in those words, grim as they might be, but Dean doesn’t want to think about that. Thinking about Sam being… well. It’s not a train of thought that he wants to follow. So he doesn’t think about it. He puts the while terrible idea into the back of his mind, and swears that he’s going to ignore it for as long as possible. And he doesn’t just ignore it, he steadfastly refuses to believe it.

“I’m not gonna stop searching. I’m going to find my son.”

Bobby curses under his breath. “I’m not saying stop searching, dumbass, I’m saying work this one case. Everyone hunter I know is searching for your boy, and sitting around here ain’t helping no one.”

They take the case.

“Ghost, I figure,” Bobby says. “No deaths yet, but better take care of it before bodies start piling up.”

John frowns the whole time Bobby tells them about the case. “So it’s just word of mouth evidence? No news reports, no deaths, how do we even know it’s a case?”

Bobby shrugs. “Caleb called me about it, said a guy he knew was on his way to Nevada, went down some long stretch a road, saw a hitchhiker.” Bobby pauses, pulls his dirty cap off to scratch his head. “He went past, but down the road he saw the same hitchhiker again. So he passed him again, and again, and it just kept going on like that.”

Dean agrees that it’s weird, not something that happens normally. Though the last thing he wants to do is work a case while his brother is missing, he knows that there’s no real reason to refuse. Even if no one has died yet, there’s still a ghost or something haunting that highway, and it needs to be taken care of.

They drive down to California for the second time in a month. Dean is starting to think that he hates this state, hates being in it, and hates everything that it represents. Everything it has taken away.

Of course it isn’t the state’s fault, but he needs to blame something, and as since there’s nothing else he can accuse of taking Sam away… Well, the fault then belongs to the state that took him away in the first place.

John takes the hulking black truck, leaving Dean alone in the Impala. He drives the entire trip lost somewhere between his mind and the incredible loneliness that comes whenever he glances at the empty passenger seat. The Impala feels different without Sam; hollow, desolate, whatever. Dean doesn’t care about specifics, all he knows is that everytime he looks at the seat where Sam isn’t sitting, his stomach twists itself into knots and he feels like he’s going to be sick.

Kyburz, California isn’t even a town. Dean isn’t quite sure what the official term for it is, but he knows it has “community” in the title. It’s just as small as the majority of backwoods, nowhere towns he’s been through in his life. It looks like half-hearted attempt at civilization, existing amongst trees and campgrounds and hiking trails. _Community_ is a perfect word for it.

Despite lack of a true town, John and Dean manage to find a motel and book a room.

“Shouldn’t take too long,” John comments as they lug their bags into the room. The walls, floor, and beds are all various shades of shocking blue. John doesn’t seem to notice the color, as he drops his bag on the bed closest to the door, and pulls out his journal.

Dean can’t help but doubt his statement. Hunts always take longer than expected, and there is something about this particular case that just rubs him the wrong way. If he was asked what it was, he couldn’t say, but there’s something prickling at the base of his spine, the hairs standing on end, like spiders crawling up his skin.

He shakes the feeling away, claims the second bed, and says, “I’m gonna go pick up some beer. Wanna meet at that diner we saw on the way in?”

John simply nods, frowning as he consults his journal.

Dean leaves without a backwards glance. There is a store, and it’s within walking distance if he felt so inclined, but that was just an excuse. He drives around for a little bit, some kind of obnoxiously happy ‘80s music playing on the radio, and tries not to think about anything at all.

It doesn’t work.

He stops by the store, the kind of generic, locally owned gas station that exists all across small-town America. There’s only a couple people inside, including the scrawny teenager behind the register. Dean slips through the store, trying not to attract too much attention, and trying not to look too suspicious. Something which he fails, if the watchful glances of every other person is anything to go by.

Dean’s standing in line, candybar in hand, when he hears it.

The kid in front of him, another scrawny, wannabe hipster, is talking to the cashier. Knows him, apparently. He’s talking about some girl or something, which Dean could care less about, but then he hears the words ‘hitchhiker’ and every alarm in his bodies goes off.

“Hitchhiker, huh?” he says as he moves up in line.

Cashier-kid glares. “Ever tried not eavesdropping?”

Dean smiles. “Sorry, man, I couldn’t help but overhear. What’s that all about, though? You get a lot of hitchhikers through here?”

The kid’s little metal name-tag reads ‘Otis’, which is an unfortunate name, if you ask Dean, and he hesitates before answering in a overly casual voice. “Nah, just the one.”

“Really? Just one?”

More hesitation. “Well, I mean, there’s been hitchhikers before, it’s just...:” he shrugs. “This one was different.”

“Different how?” Dean asks, leaning in slightly to catch the kid’s answer.

Another shrug. Otis’ eyes flicker around the store, then he says “Different as in he was covered in freaking _blood_ . Like, _a lot_ of it, everywhere, like he went swimming in it or something.”

“You saw him?”

His expression turns incredulous. “Dude, I rode in the same _car_ as him.”

 _Jackpot_.

 

…… …… ……

 

The car comes out of the desert, a fast moving blue object, and he waits for it to speed on past him.

It doesn’t.

The Jeep, bright blue and mud splattered, screeches to a stop with a squeal that makes him wince, and then reverses back to where he is.

He wonders who would be insane enough or suicidal enough to stop for him. He wonders if, maybe, he should be afraid of them.

“Need a lift?”

A young, female voice calls out. He walks towards the car and peers in through the passenger window. The boy sitting in the front seat leans as far away from the window as possible, and shoots the girl driver a horrified look. She remains undaunted. Two more teenagers are sitting in the backseat, a boy and a girl, and the girl leans towards the driver’s seat and hisses a frantic “ _Lily!_ ”

He looks down to where his arm is tightly clenched around his bleeding stomach. The girl’s eyes follow his, and her face grows pale, but she doesn’t say anything about the obvious wound.

Hesitantly, he nods.

“Otis, get in the back,” Lily says.

The boy in the passenger seat flashes another horrified look. “What? You can’t be serious!”

She is, apparently.

Otis clambers into the backseat, looking horrified and worried and greatly upset the entire time.

“Get in. You can put your bag in the footwell. Just… don’t get blood on the seats.”

He blinks at the empty passenger seat, the girl, then down at the duffle bag he’s carrying in his left hand. How could he have missed that? He doesn’t remember having a bag.

The car door closes with an audible click. The three teenagers in the backseat are quiet, probably scared to death. Lily is watching him with a tense expression.

“So,” she asks, “you gotta name?”

“Sam. My name is Sam.”

 

…… …… ……

 

“You’ll never guess what I found.”

Dean barrels into the diner and throws himself down onto the faded vinyl booth. He’s breathing hard, smiling wide, and looking almost happy. It’s the first time in weeks that his mind has been on something other than his missing brother, the first time in a very long time that he’s not thinking about Sam.

“What,” John says, not even attempting to guess.

Dean flashes another grin and whips out a crumpled piece of paper. It turns out to be two crumpled pieces of paper, one a hastily scribbled upon sheet of notebook paper, the other a several week old newspaper page. He says, waving the paper, “I found our hitchhiker.”

John looks duly impressed. “Really. What’d you find?” He doesn’t say anything about his own research, and Dean can only assume it’s because he hasn’t found anything.

“Kid at the gas station, some poor sucker named Otis, says couple weeks back he was driving with his step-sister and some friends on the way back from Reno. So, they’re driving and they come across this guy, so Otis’ sister, Lily, gives the guy a ride even though everyone tells her not to.”

“And? What happened then?”

“Well,” he shrugs. “They gave him a ride into town, dropped him off at the gas station, and that was the last they saw.”

“Really,” John comments, dryly. “Why’d a buncha kids pick up a stranger in the first place?” He shakes his head, disgusted with this whole generation. “Asking for trouble, is what that is”

Dean shrugs a little. He can’t disagree, because in this day and age who would pick up a random, bloody hitchhiker? Fucking crazies, that’s who.

John stirs his coffee and frowns. “How do we know this isn’t just some normal guy hitching?”

A ridiculously excited grin appears on Dean’s face. “Well, because the guy was covered in blood. Everywhere, like he went skinny dipping at a bloodspa. _And_ he had what Otis referred to as a ‘gaping wound’ in his stomach. Sound humanlike to you?”

“Ghost?”

“I already thought of that,” Dean continues. “So, I figured why not swing by the sorry excuse for a library, and see if there were any legends or deaths that happened between Kyburz and Reno. Before you ask, the answer is zilch. Nada. Nothing. Or, well,” he amends, “ nothing that could lead to our mystery hitchhiker.

“ _But_ , while I was wasting time following the wrong lead, I found _this_.” He proceeds to produce the crumpled newspaper page with a dramatic flourish. “ _Ta da_!”

John stares. “What the hell am I supposed to be looking at.”

An overly exasperated sigh accompanies Dean sliding the paper over to his side of the table. “August 18th,” he reads. “‘Isaiah Monroe, of Kyburz, reported a theft Thursday night. His garage was broken into and a car was stolen.’ Apparently, Isaiah here was car enthusiast, had quite a few pricey beauties in his collection. One mint condition, black and chrome 1958 Cadillac DeVille disappeared Thursday night.”

He throws a pointed look John’s way, and continues to read, “Witness reports seeing a possible suspect beforehand. Police are looking for a dark haired male, between the ages of 30-to-35, between 6’4 and 6’7 feet tall.”

Dean finishes and folds the paper with a smile. “Last I checked, ghosts don’t need to drive cars.”

John’s face is a mix of surprised, pleased, and slightly impressed. “So it’s not a ghost, and if it’s not human…”

“...then what the hell _is_ it?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Author's Note:** Kyburz, California is a real place. I've never been there, and I don't know what it's like, so I apologize to the residents of Kyburz for this inaccurate fictional take on it.


	3. Encounter time and then came me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A car is stolen. A demon is chased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Blue Oyster Cult's "Astronomy"  
> Chapter quote from Blue Oyster Cult's "Shadow of California"

* * *

  _“Their fear at the crossroads of what’s in the future_

_Down in the darkness on the highways of night_

_With no love from the past”_

* * *

 

 

Once upon a time he would have felt bad.

Thievery, especially the unnecessary kind, was something he didn’t do, something he tried to avoid. He wasn’t a thief, or at least he tried not to be. He didn’t like stealing. He didn’t like committing crimes.

He wasn’t a thief.

Until now, that is.

The security systems are child’s play, a pathetic attempt to keep anyone out. He wonders why someone who collects such valuable cars wouldn't invest in a more adept system, but doesn’t question it too much. It only benefits him, after all.

He breaks in without triggering any alarms, without any spotlights and or motion detectors coming on. It’s too easy, and he feels too comfortable slipping through the shadows. It feels natural, like he was born to a life a crime, like he was always meant to lead one.

Which, well, he basically was.

So he steals the car.

He could have stolen any car. Hot wiring is something he has been doing since he was barely out of diapers. He has perfected his craft. Any car is fair game. Most of the time, when need pushed him into that familiar act of grand theft auto, he went for cars that were durable, of course, but that no one would miss. Old cars, worn out cars, cars that people were probably kind of glad to have stolen, because the insurance was better than the shit vehicle.

He doesn’t take cars for the pleasure of taking cars. He doesn’t want to take people’s cars. He isn’t that kind of person.

Or maybe, if he allows himself to be, he is.

The car is nice and impractical and reminds him too much of someone he cares too much about. He doesn’t need the car, and if he was thinking straight then he should definitely try and find another car. One with better gas mileage. One that won’t be so easily recognizable. One that no one will miss.

But he doesn’t take another car.

The keys are hanging on a hook by the door and it’s easy, it’s all too easy, and while he had been having second doubts, there is no way in hell he’s backing out now. Hell, he doesn’t even have to hotwire it. He just lifts the keys, slides into the smooth leather interior, and cranks it. The engine purrs to life. He’s not really a car guy, but damn does that sound sweet.

The black and chrome beast is pulling out of the garage when the back door to the house bangs open to reveal an elderly man with a shotgun.

“Fucking bastard,” the old dude screams. “That’s my fucking car!”

Foot presses the gas pedal to the ground. He grips the clutch, hears the gears shift and grind, swears he can smell rubber as he peals the hell out of dodge.

The old guy is still screaming, something about a giant fucking bastard, and waving his gun. But he’s not gonna shoot. People like him, those who spend so much money and time and love in repairing cars like this, aren’t gonna risk taking a shot. Might hurt the precious car, after all.

Tires hit the asphalt and squeal through town. The old guy gives up fast, knowing that there’s no way he can catch up to a car like that. Probably turns around to call the police, have an APB put on the car.

Easy to spot, he thinks, a car that looks like this. Figures that he’d best put many miles, maybe a couple states, between himself and the fella he just stole from. Figures he needs to be more careful, needs to watch himself better.

He presses a hand to his stomach.

Blood seeps out between his fingers, a wet red stain.

He’s so tired of being careful.

He’s so tired of everything.

Headlights flash in the rear view mirror, and for a moment fear creeps up. The car passes. A sedan, something new and flashy, not a cop. He lets himself breath again, quietly. Wonders why he got afraid at the thought of cops. Cops are the least of his problem, really, and probably the least threatening he’s faced in a long, long while.

Sure, people may be crazy, but they aren’t just humans after all. He’s got bigger things to think about, bigger fish to fry.

He steps on the gas, and drives that chrome beast into the night.

 

…… …… ……

 

A demon. This is the only option.

Well. Not the only option. Dean assumes that there is probably some other obscure but horrifying creature that it could be, but various phone calls to Pastor Jim and Bobby seem to lead to the same general conclusion.

A demon.

They are hunting a demon.

Dean has faced a plethora of horrifying things in his life, things that most people don’t believe in, things they consider to be made-up monsters to scare little kids at night. Things that people don’t _want_ to believe in. Angry poltergeists hurling knives and hatchets with telekinetic energy, mutilated ghosts, hungry rugarus with hankerings for some human flesh, werewolves intent on ripping out hearts and anything else they can get their mutated claws on.

Dean has faced some things, he’s seen some shit. He’s not new to this game, and he’s been around the block before.

But a demon…?

He’s faced literal real-life nightmares that would make most people piss their pants in fear, and yet just the word is enough to make him uneasy.

Dean hasn’t faced a demon before. Hell. He barely knows anyone who has faced a demon. Pastor Jim, probably. Maybe Bobby, but he’s not really sure.

How the hell do you kill a demon?

… can a demon be killed?

Probably. Everything can be killed… right?

Dean doesn’t know. Not really, and he refrains from asking John any of the questions that are bubbling up underneath his skin as they check out of the shitty little motel. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t ask his dad. He probably wouldn't get an answer, anyway, but he’s pretty sure that’s not the reason that he keeps his questions to himself.

John is in a mood, all silent and brooding.

 _Like always_ , Dean thinks, and then muses on how much alike John and Sam were. Both constant drama queens, and occasionally total bitches.

Which, when he thinks about it long and hard, is probably why John and Sam were always at each other’s throats. They were too alike to get along, too similar. They couldn’t communicate, and they always thought the other was wrong. They hated each other, sometimes, but only because they saw too much of themself in the other.

 _Like father like son_ , Dean thinks, then wonders where the hell that leaves him.

 

…… …… ……

 

They drive west, hitting the coast, and covering all the ground they can. Other hunters help, shifting their focus from searching for Sam to searching for a supposed demon. Dean hates the fact that his brother isn’t the central focus anymore (he wants to find Sam, goddammit) but John briskly explains that a demon is more important.

 _More important than your son_? Dean wants to ask, but doesn’t, because Sam was always the rebellious one and Dean was always the good little soldier who followed orders.

There isn’t much of a trail.

Do demons even leave trails? Do they know how to cover their tracks? Was the trail on purpose? Was it a trap? A tease?

Dean doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really care, but there was only so much music he can play to drown out his thoughts, and sometimes those thoughts still leak through. It’s not like he can talk to anyone, seeing how John spends half of his time driving ahead in his truck and the other half of the time obsessively flipping through his journal, broodingly. And there’s no one else: Bobby, Caleb, Pastor Jim… talking to them wouldn’t work. Dean doesn’t even know what to say, or how he’d say it, or what he wants to say. He isn’t exactly good at talking, and the only person he wants to talk to isn’t around anymore.

He can watches the taillights of John’s truck as they drive across the state, following their elusive prey. A cassette plays softly, but he’s hardly listening. It’s just background noise, something to drown out the silence that exists when there’s only one person in the car. The passenger seat is void of a passenger, occupied only by a day old newspaper from a town called Jericho.

 

…… …… ……

 

The newspaper doesn’t have much to say about the whole affair, and at first Dean isn’t sure if there is a connection at all, but John has that dark, determined look on his face, the one that says he is sure of what he is doing.

There isn’t a case.

Not anymore, at least.

John storms through the town like a bull in a china closet, flashing fake badges and only halfway convincing smiles. He gets access to the meagre files, cases dating back years of missing men along a particular stretch of road. The diagnosis is a woman in white, a form of spirit that Dean is fairly familiar with, but this is where things got strange. The case is already… solved?

“A car? Someone drove a car through an abandoned house? And what? Just walked away?”

The deputy sheriff shrugs helplessly in the face of John’s outrage. “Yep, that’s what it looks like. Not really sure if there was a connection to those missing men or not, but we found corpses in the basement.”

“Any positive IDs?”

“The missing men.”

The incredulous expression grows. “A stolen car is driven into an abandoned house. The same house where you find the bodies of missing men going back a decade. A house that has been abandoned ever since a woman drowned her children and then jumped off a bridge. And you have no idea who the driver of the stolen car is. And, somehow, you find nothing odd about that?” John asks, his voice increasing in volume with every question.

“As far as I’m concerned,” the sheriff says, “it’s a case solved. ‘sides, I have my suspicions about who drove that car into the house. I don’t know how he walked away unharmed, because hell, that car was totaled, but we found some blood in the driver seat. No positive matches, though.”

John latches onto this bit of information instantly. “Really, who do you think it was?”

“The other guy looking into the case. FBI. Came in here two or so weeks back. Tall fella with sissy hair. Kept asking all these questions about the missing men, asking if they cheated on their wives and weird stuff like that. Asked questions about Constance Welch, too, the woman who jumped off that bridge after drowning her babies.” The sheriff shakes his head. “It’s a shame, what happened to that family. Just a crying shame.”

Dean listens to the back-and-forth, and watches as his dad puts two and two together and comes up with four. Dean himself is still stuck on three.

John believes the FBI guy with the sissy hair is the tall, bleeding stranger that they’ve been chasing. The demon who stole the old rich dude’s car. Which is… understandable, Dean supposes, but he just doesn’t understand why a demon would go around solving ghost cases.

It just doesn’t make sense.

There’s something, some piece of the puzzle, that’s missing. Dean’s not sure what it is, but he knows that there is something he and John are overlooking or not getting, and if they could just find that last piece than maybe everything would finally start making sense. Until then, he knows that they are constantly going to be one step behind.

John’s turning towards the door, eager to be on the road chasing down this demon, when the sheriff speaks one last time.

“When you think about it, though, it's kind of weird that the FBI would send a guy out for a case like that. Especially with that junior agent, or whatever the hell he was called. Looked too young to be FBI.”

Dean stops in his tracks, brain whirling with jumbled thoughts. He goes to speak, to ask a question, but John beats him to it.

“Young guy? What’d he look like?”

It’s a one in a million chance. No, it’s less than that. It’s a dumb question, nothing but empty hope, nothing but desperation.

The sheriff blinks slowly, probably surprised at the intensity of John’s question. Dean tries to remember his name, but can’t. It’s something dumb sounding. Donahue or Donague or something similar.

Donahue/Donague shrugs. “I dunno, young. Tall, skinny. Had floppy hair. Really polite though. Looked like a high school student or maybe college, I guess. Like I said, too young to be a FBI.”

Dean feels his heart skip a beat. He looks at John and sees his own feelings reflected on his father’s face. Fear, joy, the impossible hope that _maybe_ …

John looks at Dean. Their eyes meet, and Dean knows that they’re thinking the same thing, the same name.

 _Sam_.

**Author's Note:**

> so i don't know what this is, but, well, i guess it's something?


End file.
